Lists have been made and taped to the fridge. I am pretty sure they'll be ignored, but it's been a comforting exercise writing them anyway.
I've made the decision this trip will be a bit of work, A LOT of play, and very little rest. I figure I can sleep on the plane.
Before I leave, we celebrate my first born's birthday. I farewell my parents on their travels and at some point I have to turn the hypothetical: 'what will I pack in my travel bag?' into, you know, actually packing my bag. So there's a fair bit to do.
But I travel with my mind eased on one issue of GRAVE CONCERN.
Shoes.
Historically, high heeled shoes and I do not have a great friendship. It's more a one way love affair, with me the swooning admirer, and the shoe itself ready to wreak havoc at any opportunity.
And so even though I love wearing them, it's really just too painful.
Recently I had the fortune to attend a talk with a person I have long admired. I immediately spotted her all too fabulous shoes and wished longingly that I could wear said items, for any length of time without developing blisters and aching bunions.
Oh yes, my feet are devastatingly attractive.
I chatted with the object of my admiration afterwards and as we walked across the grass together she took a pair of flip flops out of her satchel and removed the shoes.
This, she told me with a knowing nod, meant she got the best of both worlds.
And really, that simple tip transformed my world.
So when you see me at the ABC I will be wearing some wondrous high heels.
But in fairness, you should also know that whenever the opportunity arrives for me to hide my feet, as in, we're sitting at a table or something.
The flip flops discreetly tucked away in my bag will be coming out.
I felt it only fair to be completely honest with you about this.
See (many) of you on Saturday.
Got any secrets to share?

Today my children have a dental appointment.
This is a stressful event. For me. Not for my children obviously. In these early halcyon days trips to the dentist are nothing more than a delightful opportunity to be picked up from school by mum and taken somewhere.
They get seated in a lovely relaxing chair, given a sticker and have their mouths examined briefly. All very nice.
Not for them the news of root canals, or injections the size of Texas, or horrible drills that leave your ears ringing for weeks afterwards.
For me however, the yearly dental check up for my offspring induces stomach churning anxiety for weeks in advance. Mainly because the dentist asks them the question how often they brush their teeth, not me. I of course would say twice a day. However their answer may differ.
So my stress was heightened when I asked my daughter in a faux causal voice yesterday: "How often do you brush your teeth sweetheart?"
She wrinkled her nose and gave the question some considered thought. "Um, not very often."
Seeing my horrified face she hastily amended with: "Well sometimes alot, especially when you're taking us to the dentist."
I took two deep cleansing breaths. "Sweetheart, you brush your teeth twice a day. Remember?"
"No mum, I don't. I forget. And you don't remind me all the time" was her reply.
It's been nearly EIGHT years of parenting.
EIGHT.
I thought I had some handle on the parenting routine.
Following on from the conversation I had a grave conversation with the offspring about dental hygiene and remembering to brush teeth twice a day.
So this morning teeth were brushed and I repeated my question.
She duly responded with "I brush twice a day mum, just like you told me to say."
The appointment is in an hour.
I'm stuffed aren't I?